


So Lonely

by hippiechick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post S3, oh geez louise, self-talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-08
Updated: 2014-10-08
Packaged: 2018-02-20 02:49:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2412215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hippiechick/pseuds/hippiechick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With any luck, Sherlock will not talk himself out of doing what he has wanted to do for so long now. But will John be accepting?</p>
            </blockquote>





	So Lonely

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't know I was so lonely til I found you. --The Long Run by The Eagles
> 
> I have loved this song since it came out on vinyl a jillion years ago, and I was singing along at the top of my lungs on the way to work the other morning. Right in front of the elementary school--EPIPHANY!! Suddenly I had a place to write from. Those pesky little kiddos are lucky I can drive and epiphanize at the same time.

Interior shot of a science lab in the basement of Bart's; people coming and going. At last, it remains empty. Cut to shot of man peering around the corner and entering the lab. 

Voice-over: Why must Molly Hooper always be in there, other than the fact that she works here. Chill, Sherlock. It's yours now. Doesn't she realize some of us have more important things to do in here than her piddly job? And besides, it's not like you've got anything else going these days. Why did she leave that bottle out? I hear footsteps, now who? Why are there no bars on my phone today? I always have service in here. Will Graham, no--Geoff, no--Gavin, no--dammit, Lestrade, does he even have a first name?--will he have a new case for me soon? Have I got any fags stashed in the flat anywhere? Did Mrs. Hudson take my skull again today? What will it take to silence all these thoughts for just a bit? STOPPPPP! OK, deep breath, Sherlock. Concentrate. 

Tall, handsome man with dark curls, sharp cheekbones and swirling coat takes several mind-clearing deep breaths and starts his experiment. Just as he is finally hitting his stride, those footsteps he heard earlier make their way into the lab.

Yes, yes, yes, you've all seen the "made-for-TV" movie of my life: in came Stamford with John Watson in tow, I deduced him, we became flatmates, pink, dominatrix, Moriarty, I jumped, not dead, Mary, blah blah blah. What you don't know is that all those thoughts and more of the same seem to be on a constant loop through my brain all the time. TV doesn't show you the inside of someone's head. Well, if it did, mine would be the only one worth watching since no one else has anything happening in theirs. And while I generally enjoy thinking, sometimes one just needs a small break. That's where the cocaine or occasional heroin came in. It allowed me to focus on only a few thoughts rather than the entire running monologue. Why confess all of this now? Because I am about to do something that I have wanted to do since that first day when I winked at a short, blonde, fascinating man. If it all goes a bit pear-shaped, I may actually jump without the benefit of bungee cords, hypnotists and well-timed cyclists. If this fails, it will be the death of me, I fear. Call me a drama queen (again), but life without John would be unbearable. With Mary and the baby gone into a protection program, I think--hope?, is that OK to say hope here??-- life without me would be unbearable for John, as well.

The only non-chemically induced quiet in my brain is always and has always been caused by John Watson. That's not to say that many of the thoughts playing through my head aren't about him most of the time (and especially during the Gone Time) but John has a way of cutting through the mire I sometimes find my brain in. I spent many years alone with my thoughts, not caring about anyone else, mostly because they didn't care about me. The familial neglect and the brotherly overbearing both showed me that I was not the most important person in someone's life. Others at school or Uni were unable or unwilling to accept my genius, attempting to use it as ammunition against me: freak, weirdo, perv, jerk, idiot, psychopath; I heard them all. For the most part, none of that mattered because I knew, KNEW, that my brain was above and beyond theirs; they had no hope whatsoever to understand the buzzing of firing neurons that was the background music of my life. That buzzing is usually at fortississimo; with John, it sometimes becomes pianississimo--a much needed respite to regroup. His unsolicited words of praise, amazement, pride, joy, allowed me to know, to understand, to eventually accept, that here was someone willing to put ME at the center of their life. What I didn't understand until most recently, was just how much I wanted that to be true. Because I had never had a friend, I didn't, couldn't, realize that I was lonely. Oh the skull provided a sounding board when needed, but I didn't MISS it when I was away from it. I learned the hard way that John was my friend, once I was Gone and identified the empty gnawing feeling (aagghhhh--not feelings!) in my gut as LONELY. I had a taste of what John meant at my gravestone and I did not like it one little bit. If this doesn't work, I will have to go back to the skull as my sort-of friend. If John isn't on board with what I am about to do, I fear it will ruin everything we've ever had as friends. Oh John, please please please don't say no. I am certain that I cannot bear to be lonely again, now that I've had a delicious taste of unlonely, of being cared about and for, of life. I hear his feet on the risers of the stairs. The doorknob is turning and I can see John's beautiful face. His hair is like a halo around his head--OK, this is a bit much, Sherlock. A halo, really?--and his jumper makes him look so cuddly. Oh geez Louise, Sherlock. Enough of this sentiment. I know he can see me and the puzzled look on his face as I approach him with my arms open wide is making me second-guess myself. Me, second guessing. That never happens. Oh hell. There's naught for it now. I throw my arms around him and press my lips to his. For me, it cannot be more right. John fits perfectly within the circle of my arms. Our lips have slotted together very comfortably. John is moving his arms. Oh gods, please don't let him be pushing me away, where are his arms going? Ahhhhh, fingers through my curls, a hand on my cheek. Perhaps I don't have to ever be lonely again.

**Author's Note:**

> I imagine Sherlock's self-talk to be similar to mine when the thoughts get going and nothing can stop them.
> 
> Be kind to one another.


End file.
